The Guide and the Gamine
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: 16 years have passed since the infamous student insurrection of 1832. It is now 1848 and during the aftermath of that revolution; a journal of sorts is found. A journal that describes a forgotten love story between a guide and a gamine; a student and a street rat also known as Eponine and Combeferre. Please feel free to read and review! Much love and enjoy x (Three-shot)
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I have in all honesty no idea what this is; it just popped into my head today and demanded quite literally to be written! **_

_**The Guide and the Gamine, Eponine and Combeferre. The revolution's forgotten love story amongst other things including revolutionary quotes, poetry and Combeferre's poem from the end of Book IV Chapter V. **_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Combeferre/Eponine into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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The Guide and the Gamine

The revolution's forgotten love story

_Paris in the aftermath of the 1848 revolution_

It's been 16 years. The dust has settled on the tables, coating the sideboards, echoing out the eerie, ringing smash of bottles thrown in a desperate attempt to hold the carbines and bayonets of the National Guardsmen at bay. So too has the dust settled on the tattered, crinkled maps of Paris, of the Rue St Denis, St Michel of an angelic leader's beloved Patria scrawled in black, screaming letters across parchment thin and yellow with age. A steady, trickling stain seeps through the wood; black, viscous liquid mingling with the shockingly scarlet stains of those foolhardy, dreaming martyrs who fought, dreamt, hoped for a better world. Red on black. Liberty on death. Not revolution, but civilisation as one was reported to have said; one with wire-framed spectacles and wide, dark, short sighted yet intelligent eyes ablaze with the never quenching thirst for knowledge, for truth, for ideas, for hope and life itself.

But look! There hidden away; the leather cover water stained and ink splattered and so well thumbed that the leather cover itself is almost threadbare lies a book. It is a journal, a diary, a notebook of sorts; the dust that has been its' protector from prying eyes for so long suddenly disturbed by eager, curious fingers as dexterous digits wipe away the binding of time and look on it with fresh eyes in an almost reverent, otherworldly silence.

The cover is dark, pull-up leather, so that the colour seems to shift and migrate as the book quivers between suddenly nerveless digits; desperate to be opened, to reveal its' secrets that for 16 years too long have remained concealed. The paper; crinkled, flattened wood pulp that is yellow with age crackles ominously between fingers quivering with anticipation as eager eyes light up on the soft, fluid handwriting that adorns the title page; the letters seeming to swirl into each other so that each individual stroke can be carefully picked out; a candle guttering in a darkening student flat, the sparks of the fire, the whistling roar of the wind throwing itself against the high, slashed window.

_Journal for year 1832_

_Property of M. Henri J. Combeferre. _

_Third year student at Necker Infirmary, Paris._

Enraptured eyes travel further down the crinkled, antique page that is bursting with so much conserved hope, so much life in just three simple sentences that the mind wonders why it does not ignite. The journal trembles in suddenly cold hands as the eyes travel down to find; not a passive-aggressive warning as they have when flicking through their children's diaries for a sense of sport but two shortened quotations from Jean -Jacques Rousseau, one neatly placed after the other; which makes the thirst for knowledge, the hunger for understanding feel even stronger; clawing at a fragile physche, threatening to drown a helpless onlooker in a sudden, tidal wave of unspoken questions.

_Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains._

_All that we lack at birth, all that we need when we come to man's estate, is the gift of education._

The pages flick on; eyes scanning past lists of books and papers, of medical equipment, of carbines, gunpowder, shot and muskets; weapons, hopes dreams that were to be dashed on one sultry day in early June. Fine, intricate, minutely detailed diagrams of moths flutter through the flattened wood pulp; the worst splattered with ink; the best dated and titled with full Latin credentials; neatly signed off and dotted with philosophical or literary quotes; but the ink has faded in some parts so badly that it is hard to make out which is which. Questions begin to bubble up within a throat laid bare with breathless excitement as the candle stub flickers, guttering dangerously at a sudden draft of icy, early evening air which is ignored because this book, this time capsule, this insight into such a bright, hopeful life snapped far too short too soon; is too good to look away from.

Who is this man? This boy, this enigma of knowledge, of ideas, of hope, of life, of liberty itself?

A scrawled out address hidden deep within a corner of a detailed analysis of the muscular layout of the right hand; the writing so crammed and so small; it is barely legible; the final subject ablaze with the lines and bends of bones carefully picked out in alternating red and black ink; painstakingly drawn diagrams of the fluttering of fingers, the shape of muscles all mixed up with a scrawled note crammed in the margin in another's hand on the correct weight and firmness for cauterising thread along with a name scrawled out in letters so small that they are perfectly illegible. _Tell Joly..._

_Eponine Thenardier_

_Gorbeau Tenement_

_Rue St Michel_

_Paris_

Eponine. An unknown memory stirs suddenly, rising its' sleep filled head slowly, only to be shook back. A mane of inky ebony falling from from a tattered, blood soaked cap; as wide, dark eyes flicker, flutter for a final time- a dark, oval face awash with rain and smuts of smoke. A scarlet bead of blood dribbling from lips the colour of drained peonies; wide, dark eyes whose light and life has been snuffed out as easily as a hand cupping itself over a candle as he staggers back to a café full of ghosts; his mind full of the bitter irony that she is carried bridal style within his arms and yet he does not have the privilege, no; not the privilege; the honour of looking on her vibrant face once more.

The handwriting is blotched here; through haste or by tears it is unclear.

_'6th June '32._

_'If I should die, think only this of me….'_

_'My love is like a red, red rose …_

_'Bright star, would I were as steadfast as thou art'- John Keats - Bright star (in memory of Prouvaire)_

_'I love her. Loved her. I was so lucky to love her even though our lives are as fragile as those of the butterflies and last but three summer days in which we are blessed by life and kissed by fire.' _

The beginning of a rough sketch done in faded artists' pencil of a young, once beautiful girl standing facing the artist; her face a mirage of lights and darks; her eyes wide, deep, luxurious almost as she seems to gaze through the page towards the pencil of her creator. She has a snub nose and a small mouth; the faintest trace of a scar above her left eyebrow; her hair falling in a graceful ebony waterfall down her back. She seems to dance off the page, the pencil now a dancing master, now a conductor, as the steps are performed to quicker, almost defiant rhythm; a complicated weave of strokes getting faster and faster; rapidly skidding across the page.

The writing becomes more rapid here; a seemingly endless scrawl of ebony ink that is smudged with water stains and faded rusted brown with age so that the eye must squint in order to gain a clear understanding.

_Cher Maman,_

_The barricade is holding, but for how long we cannot yet tell as the rain has soaked through what little powder we have left and precious little remains in store. I write in haste for Enjolras and Courfeyrac believe that we could be laid under siege by first light. Dear Mother- I cannot tell you how I will smile when this fight for freedom is over; when we are at last able to set our beloved country and her people free from the oppressive hand of tyranny that has kept her in an iron fist for far too long; when I am able to return to you and the little ones with bread and wine in my arms and a song in my heart; safe in the knowledge that you and the children will be provided for. Will you send my love to my sisters?_

_We sent those men with families away whilst we still could, whilst it was still safe to do so. They are needed elsewhere and their courage will not be forgotten; nor their sacrifice sullied if we do succeed in this insurrection._

_A child died today Mother, a child of the revolution. She could not have been more than eighteen; a scrap of a gamine girl with wide, dark, almost haunted eyes that had seen far too much horror than I can do justice to on paper and a mane of rain soaked hair that hung from a tattered, bloody cap like inky rats' tails. She took a bullet for one of the insurgents; or so I have been told._

_Children should not be the objects of such inhuman killing Mother! She had so much more to live for and…_

The writing fades away here into a sudden, blotted scrawl of crusted ebony ink. In its' place lies a moth wing; a faded dull thing at first sight; but on closer inspection; the frost fragile wing tips become a sudden rainbow of colours; chocolate browns, vivid chestnuts, blinding whites, onyx coloured blacks; crinkled within a backdrop of faded yellow paper.

A quote is scrawled in haste; the nib spluttering across the page; this time from Robespierre and below one in smaller, less legible handwriting.

_'The secret of freedom lies in educating people, whereas the secret of tyranny is in keeping them ignorant.'_

_être libre_

The mouth suddenly becomes dry. The hands begin to tremble as from somewhere a voice is heard, echoing through a passage; a voice, no two voices; one a rich, deep baritone, the other a slightly raspy soprano; the tune unrecognizable yet the words that filter through into the silent room that was once packed with bright minds and passionate, eager souls all straining for the same desire, the same evanescent dream of progress seems to fall gracefully into the room, caressing the broken furniture, pulling it into a silent, watchful embrace as it silently mourns the loss of the bright, hopeful innocents who had set out in a blaze of passion to change the world.

_'If Caesar had offered me_

_Glory and war_

_For which I must abandon_

_My mother's love_

_I would say to great Caesar:_

_'Take back your sceptre and your chariot,_

_I love my mother more, alas,_

_I love my mother more'_

**_Fin_**

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_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love x**_


	2. First Meeting: Paris 1831

_**A/N: After much thought and rereading of reviews concerning 'The Guide and the Gamine', I have decided to continue on with my exploration of Combeferre and Eponine's relationship. This is for all you wonderful people who have believed in my writing and decided to read, review, follow and favourite my work- I can't tell you how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank you with all my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Combeferre and Eponine into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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17 years earlier

Paris: January 1831

He first meets her on a cold, blustery, windswept evening in early January when the rain had blown in from the south and was in the process of freezing the city into a cold, hard, unrelenting embrace; making him instinctively huddle deeper within the confines of his coat and long for the cool, gentle heat rolling off the sloping valley which he remembers from his childhood on the family farm nestled deep within the Limousin hills.

His walk back to the student flat which he shares with Enjolras and Courfeyrac takes him through some of the rougher parts of St Michel; so he is glad of the knife which Bahorel had given him 'just in case' after a particularly nasty incident which had earned him a small scar caressing the skin by his left eye and several broken fingers that is stored deep within a secret pocket of his coat. The rain hurls itself against his glasses; fogging up the lenses as he shifts his bulging satchel further up his shoulder; giving an internal sigh of relief that he remembered to place his latest explorations of the muscular layout of the human hand, a quick, rough sketch of a very fine _lycia Iapponaria _or 'Brindled Beauty' which he had spotted clinging to one of the fifth floor library windows and a rough draft of a pamphlet on the rights of women to votedeep within his thick, leather bound copy of Rousseau's '_Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality among Men' _in an attempt to keep the diagrams he had spent so long trying to perfect from spoilt by the rain. Bowing his head to the elements, he skirts over a canal of churned up mud that has been carved up by a passing fiacre and continues walking.

He is so lost in thought that at first he does not see her. She is huddled in the shadows of the front step of his tenement building; a thin, tattered scrap of dark haired humanity; her face huddled away from the road in a desperate attempt to protect herself from the wind's howling, icy embrace. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her knees; the sleeves of the overly long, tattered, rain washed greatcoat she wears trailing in the mud; her legs pulled up underneath her as if she is trying to conceal herself; not just from the howling rage of the rain but from the world itself. A tattered cap is resting at an angle on her mane of soaking, inky locks trailing in a waterfall of split-ended ink down her back as she huddles further into the safety of the door.

Combeferre's throat feels suddenly dry as he blinks away the rain clouding his glasses and takes another tentative step forward, willing his suddenly erratic heart to slow down as it thuds painfully against his ribcage. She cannot be more than eighteen he thinks as he watches the icy slicing bite of the cold wrack through her emaciated frame and feels his heart break a little at the sight. Her whole body seems to tremble at the force of the shivers and the small part of Combeferre's brain that is still sitting in the library hunched over his medical textbook finally decides to snap into action as in an instant he begins to check the symptoms into a possible diagnosis.

_Hypothermia… Hacking cough- possibility of consumption …. Malnutrition… Dehydration… Low immune system… Frostbite… _He shakes himself mentally at that and allows his eyes to travel further down her shivering frame towards her right leg that seems to be lying at on odd angle. A sudden burst of fear creeps into his throat at the sight of the leg; a mottled medley of bruises and icy pimples slowly turning blue with cold; a thin yet steady stream of blood dribbling from an unseen wound. He doesn't have much time. Up in the thick, water clogged sky, the moon slips out from behind a heavy, violet cloud and bathes the scene in a sudden, flickering bath of silver brilliance. The soft, shimmering light seems to catch the pale, oval face as a faint, low moan echoes through the silence; highlighting the sorry makeup of smuts that adorn what could; long ago, could have been called beautiful.

'Mademoiselle?' His voice is little more than a tentative whisper as he moves closer; shifting his satchel further down his shoulder and then into his hand; feeling the wet leather slip and slide through his palm as he places the satchel carefully down on the cobbles and edges closer; arms outstretched in a gesture he hopes speaks of peace.

A slight, shuddering sob catches through her throat as slowly she pulls her head out from the safety of her coat and eyes him warily; wide, dark eyes that are filled with such anguished mistrust that he takes an involuntary step backwards.

'Not Mademoiselle M'seur…' Her voice is a harsh, short rasp scraping against her throat, which tails away into a fit of coughing crashing against her lips. Instinctively he wants to move closer; to hold her so that she doesn't choke, to rub feeling back into her stiff fingers, to inspect her leg to see if it is as he fears; a sprained ankle but something he can't quite place makes him stop.

'I'll never be a Mademoiselle… Just Eponine… Just another gamine…' A sudden wincing breath of pain escapes her lips when she is able to speak clearly again as she shifts the weight on her injured leg; the hiss of pain making Combeferre almost certain that the ankle is either broken or at the very least; badly sprained.

'Eponine then', he tastes the name on his lips slowly; savouring the syllables as he inches closer; his rain washed eyes trained on her face; willing for that look of pained mistrust to fade, even though in reality he knows it won't. 'I… I need to take a look at your ankle Eponine…' He stops and swallows, wondering how best to go about what he knows needs to be done. In reality it would be best to get her inside; the flat will be empty as both Courfeyrac and Enjolras are out tonight; Courfeyrac at the opera with Jehan and one of his many grissette's and Enjolras meeting with a potential carbine supplier who is an acquaintance of Bahorel and has proposed to possibly help their cause for the right price. Combeferre only hopes that Enjolras and Bahorel; both passionately headstrong when it comes to the cause and the knowledge of right and wrong are aware of what they are getting themselves in for and can get themselves out if need be.

She shakes her head at that; a flash of defiant pain that makes him think of his glorious, golden haired leader sparking through her wide, dark eyes set deep with a face awash with pain, smuts and rainwater.

'I'll be fine _M'seur_, I don't need your charity none', her tone is painfully bitter again as he watches her try to push her shivering body up against the front of the building and into a standing position; his heart aching for this scrap of a gamine girl who once could have been called beautiful. A moment's silence as she wobbles precariously on the injured ankle and almost falls, eyes still flashing fire at him whenever he tries to make a move to steady her. _'I'll be fine M'seur', _the bitterness of those words cuts through him like a knife as a sudden cry of pain breaks through his reverie and he looks up just in time to see her crumple to the pavement again; the oversized greatcoat fanning out in a puddle of wet, brown leather about her as she clutches at her leg and bites back a sob.

'You're anything but fine Eponine and you certainly can't stand on that leg ', he murmurs in disbelief at her stubbornness as he drops his satchel and hurries over, instinctively reaching for her neck and then brushing a hank of damp hair from her face to look into her eyes which are a little too large, a little too bright for him to be comfortable with as she glares up at his concentration for a silent moment; wide, dark eyes full of secret, hidden pain behind the anger. A breath he doesn't realise he's been holding pulls through his mouth as the pulse throbs through her neck in a slightly erratic rhythm, which makes him suck in another breath; hoping that the prognosis already forming in his mind is not what he thinks it is.

Slowly and with a awkward, tentative gentleness which he vaguely remembers from picking up his sisters when they were small; he finds himself scooping her into his arms; feeling the tense muscles in her body relax for a moment as she watches him through eyes suddenly dark with tiredness.

'I like the way you talk M'seur, but I…' she murmurs as he shifts her weight against his hold, breathing in smoke and fire and damp leather as he does so and feels a ghost of a smile flickering at the corners of his lips; silently shaking his head at her stubbornness. Her hair falls in a tangled mane of matted, soaking ebony curls over his elbow as she pillows her head against his armpit, one arm thrown behind his neck as thin fingers scrabble at the back of his coat for support; wincing slightly at a sudden burst of pain as he moves over to pick up the dropped satchel and rescue his keys.

'I'm going to get you inside Eponine, then I can have a better look at your leg and we'll find some clean things', he keeps his voice low and soft; determined not to frighten her and yet trying to make her see that this is for the best as his keys shift into his free hand and with some awkwardness manages to unlock the front door; wincing at the groaning squelch of the hinges as they are forced to contract, head bent against the full force of the wind and rain hurling itself through the city.

'I… I don't need your charity M'seur, really', she mumbles suddenly, her words slurred slightly by exhaustion and pain, making him stop and glance down at a face suddenly hard with unspoken anxiety; the wide, dark eyes flickering in and out of the guttering paraffin lamp that gives light to the dingy hallway.

'Combeferre', he repeats with quiet insistence, feeling a small smile tug at the corners of his lips at the sight of her mule-like obstinacy as they finally reach the stairs. 'Please. I'm not a M'seur as much as you are a Mademoiselle; trust me.' Even her lips have to quirk a little at that, before they fade into a sudden grimace of pain when he begins to climb the stairs, trying his utmost not to jolt her further.

The single, paraffin lamp seems to swing in unison to every step he takes, the guttering, flickering wick casting large, grotesque shadows across the bare, whitewashed walls. The paint is chipped and peeling in places; the pungent stench of damp and decay a little too strong as with a breathy wince of pain he feels her pull a little out of his hold to get a better look.

'Never thought student digs looked like this', she murmurs more to herself than to anyone else; her mouth littered with broken, decaying teeth from poor diet and malnutrition. 'Looks like home to me', she sighs again and pushes herself back against the joint of his armpit; one hand fisted loosely within the fabric of his coat.

'What d'you mean?' He knows that he really shouldn't pry into her affairs, that some things said aloud are really best left alone; but this tantalizing snippet of information is too good to be left alone. She doesn't rise to the bait though; simply looks up at him with wide, dark, sleep filled eyes that are full of unspoken regrets; a lock of soaked ebony falling across her face. Gently he reaches down to brush the hair back as he so often done with either Enjolras or Courfeyrac; silently tucking it back behind her ear as finally they reach the front door of the flat.

The door is locked; as Combeferre knew it would be, but just visible under the crack is a scrap of parchment; no doubt from one of the other occupant's notebooks and the guide has to supress a smile as bending awkwardly he swipes the paper from the floor and shoves it in his pocket; having already recognized Courfeyrac's almost illegible scrawl.

The flat is dark and full of shadows when the front door finally consents to being opened, unoiled hinges groaning in audible protest at being forced to contract. The dying embers of a fire sparkle feebly in the hearth and it is only with a doctor's touch does Combeferre manage to locate a spare candle and their slowly diminishing box of matches in order to grant illumination.

The match catches the wick finally; the flame hissing, flickering onto their cramped, living room cum study, which is a complete and utter tip. Knowing both of his flatmates as he does; Combeferre knows that this shouldn't come as a surprise to him and yet the sight of half finished papers, ink bottles in varying stages of use, books fluttering open in a whirl of crinkled, flattened wood pulp and spiels of ebony ink, a faded, hastily drawn map of Paris taking up half the desk space, a half smoked cigar which he supposes is either from Courfeyrac or Bahorel lying in an ashtray on the desk which is already spilling over its' contents onto the floor makes him almost wish that both of them had some sense of how to tidy up after themselves. In his arms Eponine shifts; hasty snatched sleep slipping from her grip at last as she blinks in the flickering candlelight; wincing as the pain from her injured ankle returns.

'Sorry… I… um…' Combeferre scrabbles around for words and space as his eyes finally light up on the old, battered, moss green velvet chaise-lounge standing at the back of the room; sagging slightly under the weight of a seemingly never ending pile of books and papers. He dares to glance at the gamine in his arms; her dark, pain filled eyes that are filled with so many barriers that he desperately wants to break suddenly huge with wonder as she silently drinks in the sight; the knobs of her vertebrae pressing almost painfully against his ribs. 'So many books', the words are little more than an awe-filled, breathy whisper as he carefully begins to navigate his way towards the sofa; dodging Enjolras's priceless first edition copy of Rousseau's 'The Social Contract' which is lying with its' spine up, pages arched in a fluttering wave of concealed life, hope and liberty; obviously thrown across the room in a fit of passion. Combeferre can't help but murmur 'man is born free and everywhere he is in chains' in an undertone as he awkwardly pushes his spectacles back up his nose and in a few more small, darted steps reaches the chaise-lounge.

'M'seur you shouldn't, I 'aint worth it', Eponine protests as he sweeps a pile of papers from the chaise-longue and gently lowers her onto it; carefully elevating her injured leg onto the armrest whilst scanning the clutter for some form of cushion to prop her up onto.

'You _are _worth everything I'm doing Eponine and I'm not taking 'no' for an answer', he mutters firmly; reaching behind her to grab at an old, frayed blanket thrown there on some autumn evening deep in the mists of time and draping it over her emaciated frame with a small smile; pausing a moment to chafe some heat into her frozen fingers as her eyes continue to rove around the room; landing on a quick, pencil sketch that he had tried to do of his sisters before Isabelle had moved away to marry and Juliette had been sent to a convent and Anna was just a babe in arms and smiles sadly to herself. 'See? I won't hurt you'.

She quietens; her whole body wracked with shivers, watching him with wide eyes as he tucks the blanket in around her before straightening up and glancing towards the door to the bedroom, where he knows there will be clean, dry clothes.

'Stay a moment', he murmurs to the room at large before leaping the small barricade of books, papers and one of Courfeyrac's waistcoat's sprawled over them like some sort of trophy cover that bar his path to the door and reaching the small, equally untidy bedroom. The frayed sleeve of an old nightshirt pokes itself out from the chest of drawers the three of them share and Combeferre pounces on it; dragging the old, worn scrap of linen out of the drawer and hurrying back to the study; almost tripping back over the book barricade in his haste. A harsh, throaty laugh that transcends into a bout of painful coughing catches him unaware as he pulls himself upright and hurries to the chaise longue; carefully wrapping his arms around the thin, trembling frame as she coughs and chokes against him, the faint wheezing undertone of possible pneumonia making him wince inwardly; her emaciated frame trembling with effort. Quietly, he begins to rub comforting circles on her back as the coughing finally begins to subside, muttering soft, sweet nothings into her hair as he does so.

''m sorry…' she murmurs when she can finally speak coherently again and he shakes his head; beginning to slowly peel away the layers of sodden clothing that cling to her shivering frame. _There's nothing to be sorry about, Eponine. You know there isn't. _His hands lightly skim her ribcage; tracing old bruises, feeling for breaks and yet finding none as he lightly pulls the sodden blouse up and over her head, fumbling momentarily with the tight, sodden trousers she wears; fingers exploring the scrap of cloth she uses to bind her breasts; remembering how he used to help undress Anna when their mother was too weakened from the consumption to do it herself. _Joly will have a fit if he sees these_, he thinks to himself as each sodden item is discarded; wondering why on earth should such a child be forced to dress as a boy in such weather.

A sudden burst of sorrow clutches at his heart as he remembers those times before he went away to Paris; remembers the cold, dark days when his best beloved mother was bedridden and could hardly speak for coughing, when Anna and Juliette would crowd the door; begging to be let in and see her; desperate for an age old kiss and a warm embrace and he would gather them in his arms and carry them back into the candlelit, fire bright study and read from Aesop's Fables to try and take their minds off the ghost woman who was once their mother coughing and choking in the next room.

He remembers too the pale, haunted gaze that had been locked within Isabelle's wide, dark eyes as she had hovered in the door; gazing at him crowded in their fathers' sagging, old armchair with the girls' silently watchful gaze alive with wonder as he read aloud, trying to be cheerful; too old to be counted as one of the children and yet, at the age of thirteen too young to really be called an equal to her beloved older brother, even though he had striven to banish the pedestal that seemed to separate the siblings by age.

'Don't be', he murmurs softly; placing soft, lingering kisses on the bruised skin; kissing the hurt away as he reaches for the nightgown, pulling it gently over her still shivering body; holding her close and never wanting to let her go. She starts momentarily at the gesture of affection before leaning into him; one long fingered hand reaching up to tangle itself in his hair; his heart beating in a sudden, erratic motion as she returns the kiss; thankful, accepting adoration alive within still haunted dark eyes. _Is this what love feels like? True love? _

Deep down he knows that he will never truly be able to banish the ghosts that linger within those wide, liquid pupils; but the least he can do as she buries herself against him and he reaches over to inspect her ankle, rubbing her gently with the blanket to make her wake; is to try and grant her a sense of peace.

When Courfeyrac returns at some unknown hour in the morning enveloped by the smoky scent of sex and the sweet snippets of wine and laughter on his lips; it is to find them both asleep in a tangle of limbs and blankets; a dark haired gamine girl wearing an old night shirt of Enjolras's with a sprained, expertly bandaged ankle propped up against the head of the chaise-lounge and an exhausted medical student whose bag of books and papers lay unopened by the door.

'Sweet dreams', he murmurs as he pulls the blanket up over their sleeping bodies; reaching over to sweep a soft, chaste kiss on Combeferre's forehead and watches as a slight, sleep filled smile quirks at the corners of the guides' lips.

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_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! This is probably going to be a three-shot although I'm not completely sure yet and so questions, suggestions, comments and constructive criticisms etc will be like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	3. There's A Place For Us: 5th June 1832

_**A/N: The final instalment of The Guide and The Gamine is here! This is for all the wonderful people who have taken the time to read, review, follow and favourite my work- you have no idea how much your feedback means to me and I love and thank you from the bottom of my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Combeferre and Eponine into something cohesive- please don't sue me! **_

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There's A Place For Us

5th June 1832

Combeferre sees her fall without really understanding what he is seeing. In the chaos and confusion of the barricade there is one thing that is of paramount importance; one thing that Enjolras has drilled into their heads time and time again, that they themselves had acknowledged during that fleeting chance at glory on the 1830 barricades; a lifetime ago. _Keep yourself alive. _

A lone, panicked cry rips itself from her bloody lips as she crumples to the cobbles in the sudden blaze of fire lit up from the shot's impact as the bayonet is tugged away from its' destined target and fired through her hand as she cups it over the muzzle. _No… No… Not now… Not here… Please not here… Not now…_

Marius does not look up as he is jolted from his position of shoving a gunpowder keg out of the way; whole body racked forward by the force of the impact until he can safely pull himself into a standing position again. A smudge of red smears across her chest as she clutches her jacket; salty scarlet liquid seeping through her hand and the guide's mouth goes suddenly dry as his momentarily muddled mind suddenly whirls into action although the rest of him is screaming for him to slow down, to stop because this isn't true, this couldn't be true, not Eponine, not after he begged her to stay away, not after…

The bullet has passed through her hand; he sees that now, the tiny, icily symmetrical ball ripping through the tense _abductor pollicis brevis_, shattering the knucklebones in a burst of blood; slicing through the top layer of skin until it reaches the _flexor pollicis brevis_; making the idea of moving her back into the café more of a death wish than it should be because deep down he knows that trying to move her will simply kill her faster through the blood loss.

Names. Latin credentials scraped across a blackboard in shockingly white chalk. Words written in minute handwriting against pencil lines picked out in alternate red and black striking themselves against the thin, crinkled yellow parchment. Words scratching on a blackboard, uttered in hushed reverence whilst standing at a dissection; body pressed up close to Joly, whose eyes were wide with wonder as their professor continued the practical, pulled from the dark depths of a brain in the middle of an exam.

But not real. Not like this. Not so close that he can almost taste the salty stench of blood gushing from the wound, can feel the fear emanating from her body threatening to consume him with every moment he waits; paralysed by the crushing force of fear and shock. He had told himself that he could be prepared for anything; that he had to be prepared for anything and to obey each and every command given to him during the chaotic fight for freedom but now…

In some desperate flight of madness he finds himself dropping his still smoking carbine onto the upturned boudoir where he has been positioned beside Enjolras; the butt of the rifle pillowed up against the joint of his armpit and his shoulder; where in some distant age; a head once rested there, a body, lithe, thin and alive shivered within his arms as she pushed herself up against his hold and make to move to her, to hold her one last time; but something stops him. A sudden touch to his shoulder; fine, marble digits quivering slightly in confusion as he turns to face Enjolras; his mane of golden curls a drenched, tangled halo framing wide, confused glacial blue eyes that still, even now, burn with their conserved hopes and dreams for a brighter tomorrow.

The gaze lasts for a second; a silent, desperate second that feels like a lifetime but in reality is simply the length a combined, ragged breath as glacial blue meets liqueur brown and liqueur brown bores back into glacial blue; a silent plea etched high behind the wire-framed spectacles. The world seems to fall away as they watch each other; for gone is the smoke, gone are the screams and cries of the dying, gone is Courfeyrac's warm, comforting bulk pressed somewhere on his other side; firing with a deadly accuracy and fiery passionate hope that is somehow marred by a sense of playful cheerfulness that only Courfeyrac can inhabit, gone is Joly calling up to him for advice, gone is the stink of the rain mingling with the stench of human sweat and the salt of blood, gone is the painfully poignant tang of fear and the peppery reek of gunpowder that has seemed to enfold the whole world in a fog of fire coloured sparks and darkness. Gone is everything but her and he needs to reach her, it is imperative that he reach her before it is too late even though every particle of his being is screaming at him that it is too late, that she is gone where he will never be able to follow unless his life which is worth so little in the grand scheme of events is surely snatched away from him by the thrust of a bayonet, the boom of the canon or the rattling wail of the rifle squad.

'_Please? Please Enjolras… Mon Ami… Let me… Let me go…' _The grip on his shoulder tightens momentarily; the bite of long nails not filed down digging almost painfully into the skin of his shoulder as he flicks his gaze despairingly towards that tattered shadow which he has come to love so dearly.

He doesn't have time for this.

He doesn't have the time or the luxury of waiting for his beloved chief, his best friend, his brother in all but blood's command; but still something holds him back as Enjolras gives a silent nod; tense fingers which are marred with dirt and callouses, stinking of residue powder and the short, sharp notes of blood slowly reaching down to cover his own trembling hand; softly squeezing in a silent act of reassurance.

Something makes him stop to watch their hands; watch the marble tendons of Enjolras' fingers slowly roving over his own as the fingers reach down to clench at his in a silent, passionate squeeze. '_I will remain with you always Mon Ami,' _the squeeze seems to say and without warning Combeferre feels sharp shards of salt pricking painfully in the back of his eyelids which he furiously bites back and slowly breaks the connection; eyes silently roving over Enjolras marble features which he knows inside out; committing each and every one of the finely worked details to memory and yet knowing that every time he thinks of them, he will remember them in a different way. On his other side, Courfeyrac glances up briefly; hazel coloured eyes dancing with the fire of passionate freedom suddenly tender from underneath his unruly crown of ebony curls as he silently contemplates the duo for the briefest of moments as he dodges another bullet, yells a curse to the offending sergeant and reaches out to squeeze Combeferre's shoulder; a tight smile blossoming on his lips that crinkles through his fiery hazel eyes and makes Combeferre's heart lift for the tiniest, briefest of moments in the knowledge that possibly, by some seemingly unforeseeable twist of fate they might, just might be able to see this through. _'Godspeed my friend'. _

She is almost gone by the time he reaches her. He ducks, scrambles, leaps, crawls the barricade; barely feeling a short, sharp pain erupt through his leg as his trouser leg snags on an unseen shard of glass and rips clean; a sharp, searing scar of shocking scarlet suddenly marring the skin. Her name rips through the chaos as he scrambles up and over one of the other insurgents who is in the process of reloading his musket and nearly falls as he leaps down a upturned book case in order to reach her resting place. ''Ponine…' His knees threaten to give way by the time he manages to come close enough to be out of the line of fire and yet able to examine her closer; his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. Her wide, dark eyes that were so full of that fire which he vividly remembers from their first meeting deep within the cold, windswept Parisian winter and which he had tried to capture with little success on paper on one of the few times he had managed to persuade her back after spotting her dark haired shadow watching the lovesick Bonapartist during one of the few meetings she came to in the Café Musain are now glazed and distant from the extent of the pain as without really thinking what he's doing he manages to cup his hand around her head and slowly, gingerly pull her close; wary of the wound and wondering to what extent he can realistically move her without aggravating it further.

_Oh Eponine… Oh my love… I'm sorry… I'm so… So sorry…_

''Ferre…' Her voice is little more than a whisper that is sharp with blood and pain as her eyes flutter open; the wide, dark irises dilated by the extent of the agony as her free hand scrabbles convulsively for the lapels of his jacket; the action ragged with fear and pain and grief as he takes the fighting fingers within his own and squeezes lightly, knowing that it is not enough, that this is the last moment he will ever have with her and yet in the confused hell of the battle; unable to do anything else.

'Hush', he feels himself swallowing thickly, swallowing back the tears that threaten to overwhelm him and that he needs to restrain if not just for her sake than for his as well because he has to be strong, he has to remain strong as the emotion threatens to cloud his vision and he blinks it away; furious with himself. 'Hush Mon Petite Ange… I'm here… I'm not going anywhere… I'm here my love…'

The weight of her hair cupped within his calloused palm presses down painfully onto his skin as he holds her gaze; refusing to grant her the peace of severing the gaze in half; silently willing her to keep watching him, to keep holding him so that he won't lose himself within the dark, unfathomable pit of grief and despair that is tugging with gentle persistence at the corners of his mind; its' cold, black tendrils threatening to drown him with every passing second.

'Hush my love', he whispers; wishing that Joly were here with him; wishing that he could have had the presence of mind to fetch his medical bag but there had been no time and what little time they have left is running faster than water flowing through cupped hands.

''M sorry…' She mumbles; a small stream of blood trickling from her parted lips; cracked and broken, the skin the colour of drained peonies. Words fail him. Convulsively he swallows; scrabbling around a brain swept blank with pain, anxiety and sheer shock, but none come to his aid as with his free hand he clumsily unties his cravat, spits on a corner and silently wipes away the blood; watching as the navy cloth slowly soaks up the scarlet stain.

'I…' He stops her with a kiss; a soft, lingering kiss that tastes of salt and fire and a fiery brand of hope that is slowly guttering through his being as he squeezes her hand tighter as she slowly pillows her head against his chest; making him shift round to support her weight; feeling once more the knobs of her vertebrae pressing through the thin, soaked jacket she wears and up against his heart.

'Stay with me', the plea is little more than a harsh, blood soaked whisper that is filled with such desperate anguish that he almost feels his heart break all over again as he squeezes her slowly loosening grip; desperately trying to hold onto the guttering flame of life that is flickering, failing before his eyes and there is nothing he can do expect hold her and try and grant her failing spirit one last evanescent sense of peace.

'Always… Always my love', he whispers brokenly; feeling the tears erupt without warning through his retinas; stabbing through his salt scarred cheeks and he doesn't bother to wipe them away because that would mean that he would have to let go of her hand and he can't bring himself to do that, not yet. Can't bring himself into the sickening realisation that this bright flame which holds so much life, so much bright, hopeful potential is soon going to be snuffed out with as much ease as a hand cupping itself over a candle. Instead he embraces the salty, blinding pain that engulfs him as his grip on her shivering shoulders tightens; never wanting to let her go.

A faint smile tugs at her lips as she slowly, painfully reaches up a shaking hand to caress his cheek and he leans into the touch; feeling the warmth and light of life slowly speeding away from the dirt, smoke splattered skin as he presses a light, salt stained kiss to the skin and the smile widens for a fraction of a second that feels like a lifetime but in reality is only the length of a ragged, tear stained breath which fades away into a sudden, grimacing gasp of pain as he reaches over to tuck a stray lock of soaking ebony back behind her ear; wishing he could do more and yet knowing that all he can do now is wait for her to die pillowed in one final embrace that is soaked by blood and fire and rain deep within his arms.

'I…I love you….' Her voice seems to come from another world now, the words fading off into oblivion; an eartheral whisper that floats through the silence; silencing the roar of the canons, the wail of the rifles, the shouting screams of his brothers as the world seems to fall away; leaving just the two of them as his hand fists itself lightly within her rain soaked, bloody mane one last time; unable to speak, unable, unwilling to let her go just yet as her final breath is silenced by a lasting kiss to her forehead as he presses her forehead to his salt stained lips; feeling the fire of life ebb away faster than he would have thought possible as the shaking pressure of a hand being placed on his shoulder slowly brings him spiralling back to the present. _I love you too Mon Amour. I was… I was so lucky to love you…_

''Ferre…' It's Courfeyrac; his calloused, ink splattered palm tightening momentarily; the name spoken in a halting whisper; unsure of acceptance as the broken guide finally allows himself to be enveloped into a clutching, shaking, silent embrace that is kissed by fire and yet soaked with emotion as he buries his head into the joint of the centre's collarbone and allows himself to weep for that one fire branded soul that had been thrown into the dirt and darkness of the Parisian underworld and left to rot and had had so much to live for which now would never be discovered.

_A child died today Mother, a child of the revolution. She could not have been more than eighteen; a scrap of a gamine girl with wide, dark, almost haunted eyes that had seen far too much horror than I can do justice to on paper and a mane of rain soaked hair that hung from a tattered, bloody cap like inky rats' tails. She took a bullet for one of the insurgents; or so I have been told._

_Children should not be the objects of such inhuman killing Mother! She had so much more to live for and…_

_A tattered moth's wing_

_The beginning of a rough, pencil sketch; a myriad of blazing lights and darks of a gamine girl with fire in her eyes and light in her soul almost dancing off the page_

_A quote from __Robespierre_

_A letter to a Mother lying awake deep within the Limousin hills; watching a stretch of pale, blue summer sky dancing with clouds and longing for her first born to return safe, whole, alive back into her waiting, wasted embrace._

_Être libre_

Later, when the bayonets rack through his body in a blaze of agonizing, indescribable pain and everything turns to a blur of blinding red, amber, white and black mixed with blue behind cracked spectacle lenses and he cannot think for pain and fear as from somewhere he hears a name being roared out through the chaos; he sees her. She is standing, waiting for someone he thinks; dressed in the same tattered, rain washed blouse and trousers; still sporting the overly large greatcoat and yet somehow she is different. There is a light to her, a warmth radiating off her countenance that was never present during life and yet burns fiercely through her as her face lights up in that perfect smile that he wished he could have seen when they were both alive.

A soft smile plays across her lips that are full now, full and healthy and as rosy as the flowers that caressed the garden wall back at the farm. Her face is no longer tight with hunger; her wide, dark, seemingly endless eyes now wide and bright with life and his heart lifts in his chest at the sight of her; whole and pure and happy. _Oh my love… _

A moment passes. A moment that feels like an eternity and yet far too short a time all wrapped in one as he watches her; drinking her up, never wanting to look away.

And then she is running; bare feet flying over what ever they are standing on; he cannot tell and really doesn't want to know as he pulls her into a fierce embrace; her hands flying all over his face, touching him, revering in him as soft, sweet, whispered kisses fall from his lips and she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him close. Somehow her hands manage to tangle themselves within his hair and he grins behind the kisses; a soft smirk playing at her lips, eyes closed in complete delight at finally finding the freedom that she had been denied in life.

If this is freedom Combeferre thinks as he feels two familiar sets of hands being placed on his shoulders and the brush of angelic and ebony curls to his cheek; then freedom was something worth fighting for and he for one would not change his fate for the world.

_**Fin**_

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_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions and constructive criticisms are like chocolate to my brain and will keep me going through all my reading I have to do for University. An update on Fallen Angels will also be in the works soon- I hope!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_

_**Note on text**_

_**Chapter title stolen from the heartbreakingly beautiful song 'Somewhere' from the equally beautiful musical 'West Side Story' which I saw live in Glasgow's King's Theatre on Saturday with Katie Hall who played Cosette in Les Miserables 25th Anniversary and Christine in The Phantom of the Opera tour playing Maria! **_


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